Walking Wounded by William McIlvanney Page A

other.
    A smile had occurred like a spasm on the grey-haired man’s face when the blonde girl spoke to him. The spasm became a general nervousness. His eyes were unable to find a place where they could comfortably rest. He fidgeted a lot.
    Suddenly he stood up, lifting both glasses and, awkwardly, his plastic raincoat. He crossed quickly and sat down at another table. The dark-haired girl glanced across at him and made a face of incomprehension to her friend. The table the grey-haired man had chosen was besideanother long table with two men there, one at each end of it. The grey-haired man made as if to get up again and then subsided.
    Neither of the two men acknowledged the grey-haired man’s sudden shift of position. They were obviously not together. One of them was reading a book. He had a pint on the table in front of him. The other man was turning a beer-mat ruminatively in his fingers. He looked like someone trying to commit its texture to memory. His glass of whisky and water shone in one spear of moted sunlight from the window behind him, like a holy object in a Hollywood film.
    The grey-haired man looked at his watch again. His gin and tonic was more than half-full but he gulped it down, the unmelted ice rattling against his teeth. He rose and crossed to the bar surprisingly quickly. The barman and the woman were busy talking and the grey-haired man moved round the counter until he was in the barman’s line of vision. He held up his glass.
    â€˜Same again?’ the barman said.
    â€˜Yes, please,’ the grey-haired man said.
    He was watching the door. When the barman brought him a gin and tonic and a vodka and lemonade, the grey-haired man pulled back his hand, which was holding a pound note.
    â€˜Oh,’ he said.
    â€˜What?’ the barman said.
    â€˜Sorry. Nothing.’
    The grey-haired man took more money from his pocket and paid for the drinks and brought them back to his table. He sat looking at the two vodkas with lemonade and the gin and tonic. He took the first vodka and lemonade he had bought and started to drink it. He didn’t seem to be enjoying it but in three swallows it was finished. He got up and put the glass on the bar beside the woman. He put the glass down noisily, so that the woman turned round and saw it and started to wash it. He came and sat down and arrangedthe two remaining glasses on the table in front of him. He did it with the deliberation of someone dressing a window, putting his head to the side to look at it.
    A woman came into the bar. She was already past middle age but still attractive. Her body was slightly heavy without being unshapely. Her face had a confidence that gave it an unsagging definition. The grey-haired man was already making to get up and waving to her but she had seen him at once and came towards his table.
    â€˜Agnes!’ he called unnecessarily.
    â€˜I thought you’d wait outside,’ she said.
    â€˜I didn’t know how much longer you would be.’
    â€˜What difference does that make?’
    â€˜I’ve only just come in.’
    â€˜I hope you haven’t been drinking.’
    The grey-haired man indicated the two full glasses on his table.
    â€˜I was waiting for you ,’ he said.
    He stood up to pull out a chair for her. She glanced at the two men at the next table.
    â€˜Not here,’ she said. ‘Bring the drinks.’
    She walked to a table that was well away from anyone else and sat down. The grey-haired man followed her with the drinks, his plastic raincoat held clumsily under one arm.
    The man with the book looked up. He stared at the back of the grey-haired man as he went away careful not to spill any of the drink. The man with the beer-mat was watching too. They turned towards each other.
    The man with the book exhaled incredulity.
    â€˜I wonder how long he’s been putting up with that?’
    The man with the beer-mat shook his head.
    â€˜You would hope not long,’ he said.